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Etho’s always happy to be included in streams, especially when playing games he normally wouldn’t play. So when the GIGGS team asked if he wanted to play REPO, he was completely down for it.
The game was fun, and Etho had a great time messing around with the others. It was only about halfway through when he felt that familiar pang in his bladder. But hey, they were in the middle of a round. He couldn’t just get up! He’d go before the next round.
Okay - more than a few rounds passed. And the reason he hadn’t gotten up yet had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that sitting there, squirming in his chair, having to bite back all his whines and groans, was turning him on. Nope. Not at all.
But by the time the others stopped their streams, he was far beyond desperate. He could barely move without wincing, and every time he spoke, he could hear the breathy, whiny tone in his voice.
~
He’s zoned out, biting his lip, the chattering of the others becoming background noise. The sound of Skizz calling his name brings him back to reality.
“Uh… Earth to Etho?” He calls out with a slight chuckle.
Etho clears his throat, before replying, “Ah- y-yeah? Sorry…” He cringes at the sound of his voice breaking.
“You doing alright there, homie?”
He tries to reply, he really does - but all that comes out is a small groan, which he tries to cover up with a cough. Not that it worked very well.
“Um- give me one second, guys, i’ve just gotta- ah- take care of something.” He stammers, swallowing dryly. His words are met with various ‘okay’s and ‘all good’s, and he sighs gratefully, glad that they haven’t noticed anything. Or at least not mentioned it.
He quickly hits the mute button, pausing for a second whilst bouncing his leg up and down before ripping off his headphones and throwing them onto his desk. And he just sits there.
He knows he needs to get up. And he knows he needs to do it now, but that fullness in his bladder feels so good, the pressure hitting in all the right ways and pulling a small whimper from his throat.
He’s never gone this far before. He’s always been sensible, always been aware of his body’s limits - and he was far past that now. But how can he help himself, when he can feel the liquid inside of him pressing at his tip, begging to be let out? When he can feel his tired muscles fluttering, growing weaker and weaker?
Oh god, he really can’t hold it much longer. The thought of actually losing control of his bladder, losing autonomy over his bodily functions, makes him buck his hips upwards in his chair desperately. The fabric of his underwear grinds against him deliciously, and he can feel himself growing hard in his sweats, his breath quickening, his face growing hotter, his hair falling against his face as he grinds up again, and again, and-
He sucks in a sharp breath. His whole body freezes, save for the hand that rapidly flies to grasp his crotch, the pressure so firm it almost hurts. A small bead of liquid had pushed it’s way out of the grasp of his muscles, quickly getting absorbed by the fabric of his underwear. The small touch of dampness against his rapidly hardening dick both excites and terrifies him, his breath quickening as he stares blankly and wide-eyed at the hand in his lap.
He’s done for now.
He can’t move. He can barely breathe without the feeling that more of his control was going to slip. He strengthens his grip, trying to still his trembling fingers. It hurts to hold himself this tightly, but what else can he do?
He’s fully hard now, and has to bite his lip as he tries to fight the urge to grind into his hand, fearing that it will only make matters worse. Shit. Why did he have to go so far this time? He’s bordering on the edge of a panic attack, the only thing holding it back being the growing pit of arousal in his stomach. The fact that he likes this. No - he relishes in the feeling. He leans his head back slightly, shutting his eyes as he basks in the pleasure, letting out a shaky sigh, and he can’t stop his hips from twitching upwards against his hand, seeking any friction he can get.
Fuck. Relaxing that tiny bit proves to be a mistake, as another bead of piss slips past his control, staining the fabric around his cock even more. The breathy whine that forces its way out of his throat sounds almost pathetic, and he sinks his teeth harder into his lip to try and prevent any further noises.
He shouldn’t be doing this. He should get up. he needs to get up. Maybe if he got up now, he would make it. But the way the damp cotton rubs against his hardness wrings out a choked whimper, his body begging him to stay in his chair, at his desk.
He looks up at his monitor through his hair, which had started to stick to his face. When did he start sweating? He doesn’t care. He can see his friends’ discord pictures lighting up periodically. He wonders if they’re concerned about him being gone so long. He groans deeply, resting his head in his elbow on his desk and squeezing his thighs together as another longer leak spills into his underwear. It’s getting harder to hold on. and the knowledge that his friends are right there on call with him, while he’s… it makes his cheeks flush a dark red, but he can’t tell if it’s from arousal, or guilt from the arousal it’s making him feel.
He can’t stop himself from bucking into his hand now, the feeling of damp fabric making his head spin. He thrusts forward again and again, his mouth falling open as he pants heavily, drool threatening to drip onto the table.
He slows his movements for just a moment, trying to catch his breath, his muscles relaxing for a split second- shit shit shit! He only just manages to stem the flow by continuing to grind into his palm. He looks down at his lap, moaning softly as he sees that the wetness has soaked through to his sweats. There’s no way he’s making it now. He’s gonna piss himself, right here at his desk, with his friends on call, just a click away from them hearing how worked up he is over it.
And he loves it.
He squeezes himself tighter, rolls his hips up harder, but that doesn’t stop another small, slow stream from flowing out of him, running down the inside of his thighs before he can cut it off. He bites into the skin of his arm, whining helplessly.
What would his friends say, if they knew? If they could hear his breathy noises? If they could see him losing control? He moans at the thought, drool sliding down his skin as he breathes heavily through his mouth.
Impulse would tease, he thinks - but not in a mean way - he can hear his soft, yet stern voice in his ears; “Is someone having an accident, hmm? Couldn’t hold it any longer? So naughty for not getting up when you should have.” He groans as he imagines Skizz’s voice going gravelly, dripping with arousal as he asks “Etho, what are you doing?” He’d stare at etho’s video feed with hungry eyes, watching every tiny movement. Etho grinds into himself faster. God, the thought is so arousing that he’s slightly aware of tears beginning to prick at the corners of his eyes from how good it all feels.
Grian - fuck, Grian would egg him on, try and will his body into letting go. The thought of his sweet, whiny little “c’mon, c’mon, just let go”s makes his head spin. Scar wouldn’t say much, he thinks, but he would giggle like a child as he intently watches. And the thought of him even watching has etho biting down harder into his arm, a tear rolling down his cheek.
And Gem. He never knows what gem would do. Would she tease him? Would she be sweet? Would she make breathy noises into her mic as one hand snakes it’s way past her waistband, her hips rolling forwards, as she says his name in a hushed tone-
He’s going to lose it. Another spurt jets into his underwear, and he straightens up so that his other hand can join the one already on his crotch. He knows it won’t do anything, that he’s already past the point of no return, but he doesn’t want to wet himself right here, right now - no. He’d be lying if he said the thought didn’t rip out a strangled moan.
His whole body is trembling. He needs to get up now, rush to the bathroom - hell, even the hallway - and save his chair and carpet from damage. But he can’t move, save for the continuous grinding into his palm. His body is weak, tired, and his control is slipping more and more.
Another sharp gush into his clothes. His lap is fully soaked at this point, and it feels better than he could ever have imagined. He throws his head back and bites his lip, his hips lifting off of his chair as he tries to hold back the inevitable.
Small whimpers fill the room as the short bursts of liquid start to get more frequent. He’s lightheaded from the effort of holding back so tightly, which isn’t helping his concentration in the slightest. If he even has any concentration left. Each little spurt makes him whine and buck his hips up harder, the small moments of relief feeling heavenly. Giving in to the sensation is so tempting, so enticing, but that little voice of reason in his head is forcing him to stubbornly try to hold on. Keep holding it. Don’t let go. Keep it all in. Don’t lose control.
Until - he can’t stop it. His muscles have given out. He panics, gasping and whining as he grips at himself tighter, grinds up harder, but all to no avail. He- fuck, he’s pissing himself. He can hear the hiss of the strong stream against his clothes as it soaks through his sweats, and starts to roll onto the floor with a faint pattering sound.
And god does it feel good.
He groans deeply, mumbling a low “fuck” as he starts to give in to the sensation. The relief has his eyes rolling back and his mouth falling open as his body goes limp, save for his hand that is gently stroking himself through the damp fabric, and the occasional twitching of his hips. The feeling of the liquid rushing out of him against his hand has him moaning louder than he’d like to, but he’s too far gone to be embarrassed.
Jesus, he’s actually lost all control of his body. Trying to clench his muscles does nothing. He can’t do anything to stop wetting himself like a child at his desk. And that thought is delicious. He whimpers as he uncontrollably bucks his hips up, hard, and starts to move his hand faster.
It takes a while before the stream finally dies down, the fullness of his bladder now emptied, stained onto his underwear, his sweats, his chair, and the floor. It’s a mess. Etho is a mess.
He doesn’t last long. Once he’s finished pissing, it only takes him a few strokes of his hand to tip him over the edge, his mouth falling open as a string of drool falls down his chin. The white hot heat takes over his body, enveloping him in pure euphoria. The feeling is more intense than anything he’s ever felt, and it’s so much that at first he doesn’t even make a sound, his head lolled back, his dick pulsing as hot bursts of come join the mess in his underwear.
As he slowly begins to come down from his high, he remembers that he needs air - and gasps loudly before letting out a long, loud sound, somewhere between a whine and a groan. Small whimpers continue to escape his lips as he finally removes his hand to just sit and bask in the afterglow.
He’s still completely blissed out when he hears a quiet ping! from his headphones on his desk. He opens his eyes slowly, his head spinning, as he leans forward to click on the notification with shaky hands.
ImpulseSV: Hey, you doing alright, buddy?
Hot shame rises up through his body as he gets violently pulled back to reality. Shit. Does he know? Do they all know? No, they can’t, right?
EthosLab: yep all good
He looks down at his lap, seeing the mess he has created and groans.
EthosLab: actually, gonna have to log off for the night, sorry
EthosLab: thanks for the game :)
The clean up is gonna be hell.